Lockout

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Mojave Aircraft Storage, Mojave, California (2:00 p.m. PST / 2200 Zulu)

As the owner of Mojave Aircraft Storage, Ron Barrett was already profoundly frightened by the possible liability of turning over a $200 million jet to the wrong people, but the fact that the principles of the mysterious Colorado Springs leasing company had responded to the news by immediately flying their private jet to Mojave made him even more nervous.

Within minutes of arrival, Ron and Jaime Lopez were climbing aboard the Gulfstream and taking the proffered seats across from the CEO of Air Lease Solutions, a distinguished looking man in his fifties identified as Paul Wriggle. Wriggle’s two corporate assistants, Sharon Wallace and Don Danniher, were also introduced but stood quietly aside.

Paul Wriggle seemed the perfect physical specimen of a buttoned down, serenely confident corporate leader, Ron thought—all the attributes he wished he had. Trim, athletic, chiseled features, and sharply dressed in a monogramed shirt complete with cuff links, Wriggle was obviously a man in complete control, and if not wealthy, then at least well off.

Wriggle outlined the basic facts surrounding their missing, misdelivered Airbus A330 and the need to solve the problem as quickly and amicably as possible. “We recognize this was an honest mistake, gentlemen. It’s fixing it quickly that’s important. What we need to know right now is where our airplane is at this moment, when we can get her back, and what are the model characteristics of the one you should have sent to Pangia Airways?”

“Sorry… why do you need to know about Pangia’s?” Ron Barrett asked, regretting the challenge immediately. “I mean… certainly we’ll give you everything we’ve got in terms of info, but… I guess I’m not following the logic.”

Wriggle leaned forward. “Well, if the two aircraft are essentially identical in equipment, configuration, engine type, and flight hours, we might as well just call up Pangia and propose an even swap.”

“Just like that?”

“Simple solution, don’t you think? You know any reason to suspect the A330 that’s sitting out there right now is any different? You already said it was three serial numbers different from ours?”

“No reason” Ron replied, feeling the proximity of potential deliverance.

“So, a quick solution would be to have our pilots take Pangia’s bird back to Colorado Springs with us today, and we’ll just take care of the rest.”

Ron Barrett knew he must have a confused look on his face, but two new concepts had flashed by and he was having trouble keeping up.

“You… have two more pilots aboard here somewhere?”

“No… my guys up front are A330 qualified.”

“But… how do you…”

“Get this aircraft back?” He gestured to Don Danniher. “Don and I are Gulfstream IV type rated. We’ll fly this ship back. Is Pangia’s A330 ready to fly, by the way?”

“Ron looked at Jaime who was nodding. “We went ahead and de-pickled her just in case. We just need a fuel order.”

“Excellent.”

“But, excuse me, Mr. Wriggle,” Jaime Lopez continued. “We’re legally responsible for Pangia’s aircraft and they’d have to release her formally and with the appropriate paperwork before we could, ah…”

“Let us fly away? Understood. So happens Pangia’s CEO is a good friend of mine, and I have no doubt we can work a deal in a matter of minutes to accept the aircraft pending resolution of the problem.”

“We would need signed paperwork, sir,” Jaime continued.

“We can do that electronically,” Wriggle shifted around to catch his assistant’s eye. “Can’t we, Sharon?”

“Yes, sir.”

Something about the crispness of the reply caught Ron Barrett’s attention. In fact, he thought, this entire team had an almost military sharpness about them, and their professional deference to their boss was startlingly sharp, like electricity crackling through the air.

Wriggle had pulled out an old model flip phone and was tossing it to his assistant, who caught it deftly.

“Sharon? Find Rick Hastings’s number on my list there and get him on the line post haste. Tell him what we need.” Wriggle turned back to Ron. “As you probably know, Rick Hastings is Pangia’s CEO.”

“Right,” Ron replied, having had virtually no idea who filled that role.

The woman named Sharon moved toward the back of the Gulfstream’s cabin as she worked with the keypad on his phone.

“Mr. Wriggle, may I ask…” Ron began. “Are you guys CIA?”

The partial explosion of a belly laugh from their host caught even Wriggle’s staff off guard, although they briefly laughed as well.

“Nothing… whoa…” Paul Wriggle said, wiping his eyes, “…nothing so dramatic, Ron. Oh that’s funny!”

“Sorry, I…”

“No, no, no, that’s fine! It’s just a hoot for me to ever think of myself as involved in the intelligence community. No, you see, you correctly discerned that we’re not your average aviation lease company, but since I’m sure you’ve discovered that we just have one A330, which would be unusual, it would be logical to ask what the heck we’re up to. So I’ll tell you, in the strictest confidence. In a nutshell, we’re working on a special government project to provide and maintain a clandestine alternate to Air Force One.”

“Really?”

“Really. Which is why I have to impress on you the extreme need to treat anything and everything you know or think you know regarding our missing A330 as the equivalent of a top military secret.”

“We… can certainly keep quiet,” Ron managed.

“No, it’s more profoundly important than that. We have to make sure that we thoroughly understand each other on this, Ron. You’ve created some heavyweight liability for yourselves, so aside from just appealing to your patriotism, which I don’t question, we’ve also more or less got you by the short hairs legally. As long as you agree to keep this as an unbreakable top secret, we will agree not to sue you into penury and destroy your business. Sound like the makings of a deal?”

Ron was nodding as he watched Jaime doing the same thing. He returned his focus to Wriggle. “I… yes, that’s a deal.”

“Good. I’ve got some paperwork to give it teeth, but I didn’t anticipate a problem getting you to understand. Break the promise of absolute silence for any reason, we come after you with all guns blazing, and, as you realize, you have no defense.”

“Mr. Wriggle, why is your airplane so special, or different, that this kind of secrecy is needed?” Ron asked. “Has it already been modified?”

“It was going to be extensively modified, but we were just in the design stages, which is why we just needed a place to park it for now. Frankly, it was too conspicuous around the Colorado Springs airport where we were keeping it, so we chose your facility because it could blend in with the other A330s… which it, of course, did all too well. No, it’s a garden variety A330.”

“So… I guess I shouldn’t ask this but… you’re a private company working for the air force unit that flies the president?”

Sharon had moved slightly closer, still standing, as if anticipating something, but Ron’s attention was on Wriggle’s hand as he pulled a small leather case from a back pocket and opened it to reveal a gold badge.

“What’s that?” Ron asked.

“This company is a private corporation, Ron. I, however, am also a component of the United States Secret Service, and this company is working under a Secret Service contract. We protect the president, and we go to great lengths to make sure that the bad guys can’t get close to him. Sometimes we even waste immense amounts of fuel flying Air Force One around empty while the president flies in a nondescript plane. So, you can see why we’d be working on an alternate flying White House that, among other things, couldn’t possibly be used by the president because it’s a French-built jet. One that never sees Andrews Air Force Base. One that’s not painted like Air Force One.”

Sharon Wallace had moved to Paul Wriggle’s side and leaned over to whisper something to him. The CEO nodded and turned back to Ron Barrett.

“Okay, Pangia wants to just fly the airplane back to us and get theirs. It’s in Tulsa at their maintenance base and hasn’t been placed into service yet, so no problem. They’re sending the approval right now to release their bird to us. You’re printing it, Sharon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So that should be it.”

The remainder of the transaction had taken less than twenty minutes, and despite Jaime Lopez’s reluctance to sign the multiple-page agreement without a thorough vetting and some legal research, Ron Barrett was determined to get ink on paper and one additional A330 in the air. It seemed an agonizing eternity watching the pilots preflight the Airbus while Wriggle and associates departed in the Gulfstream, but at last the big Airbus lifted into the desert sky to Ron Barrett’s audible relief, and Jaime Lopez’s consternation.

Jaime had taken Ron by the arm as they waited. “It’s not just us, you understand. This agreement muzzles everyone in our employ. We can’t even tell our people why they have to stay silent, just ‘Shut the hell up!’”

“Yeah, Jaime, I get that.”

“Yes, but what you probably don’t get, and why I was trying to at least read through everything, as your lawyer, and consider all the implications, is that if one of our guys speaks out of school in a bar or whispers something in a whorehouse at midnight, even if he’s only guessing and BS’ing, if that crosses their line and they find out, we’re done, man! Investment gone. Game over.”

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at, Jaime.”

Jaime Lopez released the contents of his lungs in a long and weary sigh. Ron Barrett was an energetic guy but thick as a rock sometimes, and his almost total lack of understanding of legal obligations was a constant trial.

Jaime studied his shoes and mentally calmed the growing need to explode before trying one more time to get across the staggering scope of what had just been promised.

“Okay… what I’m getting at, Ron, is that when it comes to anything that happened with their aircraft or even rumors thereof, you just promised to nursemaid, monitor, shadow, and control every single solitary employee, full-time or part-time, and their families and friends and kids and concubines, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, essentially forever!”

Aboard Gulfstream N266SD

Holding a relatively fresh cup of coffee in hand from the unattended galley, Air Force Lieutenant General Paul Wriggle eased himself back into the left seat of the business jet and glanced at Lieutenant Colonel Don Danniher in the right seat. There was no trace of a smile on either man’s face.

“That was quite an act we just put on, Don. Do you think they bought it?”

“You mean, that we’re on a mission for the Secret Service?”

“Yep. Will they comply and stay quiet? Did I tell them too much?”

“The Barrett guy’s an emotional moron, General. He’s terrified, and his lawyer… who’s a bright guy… will do his best to keep him and their entire operation quiet. Probably about now he’s explaining to Barrett the promise he just signed. And I think you had to tell them what you told them.”

“That’s good. Of course, we’re not using their storage services again in this life.”

“Amen,” Danniher replied. The two men sat in silence for a few seconds before Don Danniher glanced over at his boss, a thin smile on his face.

“Sir, may I speak frankly?”

“Certainly.”

“If I called Central Casting in Hollywood and ordered an actor to play a Secret Service agent, I would be upset if they sent you. Sir.”

“So, what are you saying, Don? That I’m a bad actor?”

“No sir, but you are far too authoritative to be a Secret Service agent. You look like and sound like and are, in fact, an air force general officer, sir. Not a weasel with a badge. Where’d you get that thing, anyway?”

“Directly from the president.”

“Really? The current one?”

“Can’t tell you, Don. But it is a real badge and a real commission directly from POTUS,” referring to the acronym for the president of the United States. “Only problem is, even the Secret Service doesn’t know about this little commission. And, by the way, our Secret Service guys are not weasels.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, Don… we’ve got some serious thinking to do,” Wriggle continued.

“I’m the one who agreed to park our bird with Mojave to get it away from prying eyes around Colorado Springs, but we’re going to face this need again very quickly. We’re not going to have the budget to resume testing for at least six months. So where can we fly it and store it in the meantime, so no one’s aware of it?”

“There are still hangars available at Groom Lake in Nevada, General, but we rejected that choice because of the intense satellite scrutiny. If the Russians and NSA aren’t watching every move there, a hundred civilian UFO hunters are.”

“Yeah, that’s all we need,” Wriggle snorted. “Big headlines: US government flying space aliens on strange Airbus A330… with the following tail number!”

The two men fell silent for a few minutes before Paul Wriggle shook his head again.

“Okay… let’s keep thinking,” Wriggle continued. “Provided we can make the swap with Pangia today, we’ll need a hiding place inside three days.”

“How high did Sharon have to go in Pangia’s management, General?”

“Not high at all, since she never called.”

Don Danniher looked startled.

“Really? When did you and Sharon arrange that?”

“Minutes before. I taught her a code phrase that, if she hears it, means to invert whatever I just said.”

“What is it?”

“You have no need to know, now do you, Colonel,” Paul answered, smiling at the copilot.

“I guess not.”

“I wasn’t kidding when I said I know Rick Hastings, their CEO. He’s a fellow retired air force general, but I haven’t called him yet. Sharon found a civilian at one of the FBO’s in Tulsa who agreed to go over to the other side to check Pangia’s ramp and make sure our airplane hasn’t been painted yet… as well as check the fuel load. “

The cockpit door opened, and Major Sharon Wallace slid into the space between the two pilot seats without a word. Paul Wriggle looked at her and frowned.

“What’s the matter, Sharon? Did you get through?”

“Yes, sir. A line supervisor at one of the fixed base operators at Tulsa International. The fellow called me back and said he saw our airplane, November Three-Three-Romeo Mike, on hardstand eighteen in front of that giant hangar in Tulsa.”

“The old World War II aircraft factory?”

“Yes. He also said that hardstand twenty is open, so we can probably just slide our A330 into that spot, and they’ll send a fuel truck out to give us enough for the flight back to the Springs.”

“Excellent.”

“One other thing.” She handed him a piece of paper.

“I just found this on the BBC wire. One of Pangia’s international flights is in trouble. Sketchy details, an unexplained course reversal on a Tel Aviv to JFK flight, the crew is radio silent, and it may be a hijacking into the Mideast. I’m sure Pangia is dealing with a kicked over ant hill about now.”

“Please explain the deeply worried look, Sharon,” he pressed.

“Because, sir, the plane involved is an Airbus A330, and this is going to put an internal spotlight on their A330 fleet, which means we should make the swap as soon as humanly possible.”